thing in Paris, a typical banker's house,
decorated in the most ostentatious fashion; the walls lined with stucco,
the landings of marble mosaic. Mme. de Nucingen was sitting in a little
drawing-room; the room was painted in the Italian fashion, and decorated
like a restaurant. The Baroness seemed depressed. The effort that she
made to hide her feelings aroused Eugene's interest; it was plain
that she was not playing a part. He had expected a little flutter of
excitement at his coming, and he found her dispirited and sad. The
disappointment piqued his vanity.

"My claim to your confidence is very small, madame," he said, after
rallying her on her abstracted mood; "but if I am in the way, please
tell me so frankly; I count on your good faith."

"No, stay with me," she said; "I shall be all alone if you go. Nucingen
is dining in town, and I do not want to be alone; I want to be taken out
of myself."

"But what is the matter?"

"You are the very last person whom I should tell," she exclaimed.

"Then I am connected in some way in this secret. I wonder what it is?"

"Perhaps. Yet, no," she went on; "it is a domestic quarrel, which ought
to be buried in the depths of the heart. I am very unhappy; did I not
tell you so the day before yesterday? Golden chains are the heaviest of
all fetters."

When a woman tells a young man that she is very unhappy, and when the
young man is clever, and well dressed, and has fifteen hundred francs
lying idle in his pocket, he is sure to think as Eugene said, and he
becomes a coxcomb.

"What can you have left to wish for?" he answered. "You are young,
beautiful, beloved, and rich."

"Do not let us talk of my affairs," she said shaking her head
mournfully. "We will dine together _tete-a-tete_, and afterwards we will
go to hear the most exquisite music. Am I to your taste?" she went on,
rising and displaying her gown of white cashmere, covered with Persian
designs in the most superb taste.

"I wish that you were altogether mine," said Eugene; "you are charming."

"You would have a forlorn piece of property," she said, smiling
bitterly. "There is nothing about me that betrays my wretchedness;
and yet, in spite of appearances, I am in despair. I cannot sleep; my
troubles have broken my night's rest; I shall grow ugly."

"Oh! that is impossible," cried the law student; "but I am curious to
know what these troubles can be that a devoted love cannot efface."

"Ah! if I were to tell you